


Plague Doctor

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Banter, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: Bubonic is sometimes contrary.





	Plague Doctor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



His head hurts. Hell, his entire _body_ hurts. Tommy groans and rolls over. His muscles spasm, and he jerks into a foetal position, shaking, teeth gritted against the pain. He’d felt this once before, during training. Being tasered isn’t an experience most people care to repeat again. Being tasered _and_ bashed over the head is a whole new level of crap.

Cautiously he wriggles his feet, stretching out his hamstrings until he unfolds from his protective position. It’s only when he tries to sit up that he realises he’s handcuffed to a metal shelf bolted into a solid concrete floor.

Well, fuck.

Tommy eases himself into a sitting position and takes a look around. Concrete floor, concrete walls, metal door, metal shelving. A cool, musty smell. Must be some kind of warehouse. A strip-light buzzes overhead, casting a feeble glow. He’s sitting on a double layer of cardboard. Whoever knocked him out had the kindness to offer him a small crumb of comfort, at least. Tommy peeks down between his knees at the lettering on the flattened cardboard box, hoping for a clue as to his whereabouts.

 _Jam-filled doughnuts, 50 pcs_ , reads the text.

Tommy rolls his eyes at the irony. Double irony, really, as he doesn’t much care for doughnuts. Does a double irony work like a double negative? He’s pondering this question when the door clangs open and a man walks in. Long black coat, black sweater, black jeans, black gloves, black mask.

Isn’t this just great. Tommy rests his head against the shelf and waits as Bubonic helps himself to a cracked plastic chair, dragging its legs across the concrete floor and stirring up a whisper of dust. The chair is placed directly in front of Tommy, but far enough back that he couldn’t kick out and do any damage.

A faint curl of cologne touches Tommy’s nose. Fresh, like the sea. He blinks. Obviously the tasering had more of an effect on him than he realised.

Bubonic sits, crossing one knee over the other and folding his hands in his lap. “Hello, Detective Calligan.”

“Should’ve known you were behind this.”

“You wound me. Stealing the printing plates for hundred dollar bills is hardly the work to which I aspire.”

Tommy snorts. It hurts. Damn, even sarcasm is painful now. He shakes his head to try to clear the fog from his thoughts, then looks up. Light gleams around a mop of chestnut curls, giving the illusion of a halo. He chuckles. Imagine, Bubonic as some kind of heavenly creature. The laughter still in his voice, Tommy says, “But you’re here.”

“Indeed I am.”

“So you must have had _something_ to do with the heist.”

Bubonic tuts. “How tiresome you are, Detective. Making baseless accusations is not the way to win people over.”

“I don’t want to win you over.”

“How unfortunate.” The thread of humour in Bubonic’s voice becomes richer, huskier. “After I saved your life, too. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

The cuffs jangle as Tommy lifts his hands to rub at his gritty eyes. Memory seeps back to him. The Cyber Crimes Unit had intel on the heist, painstakingly gathered over months of listening in on chatter from various right-wing isolationist groups. When the signal had come, he and Yeager had gone out to protect the assets. They’d got separated. Gunfire had been traded. Alarms shrieked, tear gas stinging the eyes; security staff swarming, the NYPD getting in on the act, but the CCU weren’t gonna be sidelined. Tommy had chased down the suspects trying to haul ass into a van. Trying to be a hero, he’d grabbed onto the open door of the van as it swung out of the yard. He’d got inside on a burst of adrenalin, only to be rendered unconscious by two balaclava’d thugs.

“They were all for killing you and dumping your body.” Bubonic’s gaze wanders the length of Tommy’s legs. It seems to linger a little, hot with curiosity, before tracing its way up over his chest. “That would have been a shame.”

“Thanks.” It’s embarrassment making him sound gruff. Nothing else.

A quiet _tsk_. “You can do better than that, Detective Calligan. Saving you cost me ten percent of my payment.”

“Only ten percent?”

He senses amusement beneath the mask. “If only they knew your true worth, hmm?”

Probably best not to answer that one. Tommy shifts on his cardboard seat and clanks the handcuffs. “So you gonna get me out of here? Or are you just in the mood to gloat?”

“Oh, I think I deserve the opportunity for a little gloating.”

Can’t argue with that. “Okay.” His head still feels fuzzy, but his cramped muscles are starting to respond. Pins and needles fizz up his legs. He jogs his feet up and down then stops, studying Bubonic with the same interest that Bubonic is showing him.

The black leather mask with its curved beak looks handmade, the leather softened and shaped and stitched to fit the contours of the face hidden below. It’s the stuff of nightmares to most people, but Tommy kinda likes it. And if that makes him some kind of fetishist, then so be it; whatever fascination he has with Bubonic, he knows it’s returned in equal measure. It’s unprofessional, really. On both sides.

The thought makes him smile. Bubonic makes a small, questioning noise as if to ask what’s so funny. Rather than tell the truth, Tommy says, “I’ve always wondered, why do you call yourself Bubonic? Why choose a virus that’s practically been eradicated, that has a cure, rather than something out of control and scary? Like Ebola or—or rabies, or Spanish flu, or anthrax?”

Is that a smile tugging at the corners of those lips? “I would never take the name of a heavy metal band.”

“Yeah, I see that. It could confuse the public.” Tommy waves his cuffed hands airily. “But there’s plenty of other deadly viruses. Smallpox. Zika. Bird flu. Norovirus.”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Detective.” Yep, _definitely_ a smile there.

Tommy feels a flash of triumph. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere. I can keep this up all day.” He can’t, but Bubonic isn’t to know that he’s reached the limit of his scary virus knowledge.

Tugging at the sides of his coat, Bubonic leans forward. The chair creaks. He waits until the room is absolutely silent before he says, “The number of deaths caused by the bubonic plague over the centuries is estimated at two hundred million.”

“Huh.” The figure is almost too great to comprehend. Tommy falls back on sarcasm. “Is that, like, a life goal? ‘Cos I’ve gotta tell you, you’ve a long way to go.”

“Don’t be flippant, Tommy.” All humour is gone from Bubonic’s voice.

At the sound of his name, Tommy jerks his gaze up to meet the glinting blue eyes behind the mask. “Then what?”

Silence again. Then, with a soft sigh, Bubonic uncrosses his legs and stands up, the crumpled wings of his coat hushing around him. “It’s not about the number who died. It’s about those who lived.”

He reaches a gloved hand into his coat pocket and tosses down something small and silvery.

A key, Tommy realises. He scrabbles for it, drops it, catches it up again and bends his hands into unnatural shapes to unlock the cuffs. The metal clatters in time with his heartbeat. Finally he’s free, he’s pushing to his feet, he’s staggering to the door—the door that has been left open wide, so he can walk straight out into the sunlight—but when he reaches it, when he grabs at the doorframe and hangs there, legs buckling and blood pounding, Bubonic is long gone.


End file.
